


Dum Dum Diddle

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [82]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya wants to cook, but Napoleon has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dum Dum Diddle

Napoleon stared at the checkbook, vainly trying to make sense of the numbers. With a sigh, he pulled on his glasses and looked again. That was much better, but he didn’t have to like it.

He tried to remember a time when his eyes could see the serial number on a dollar bill fifty paces away. Now his arms simply weren’t long enough.

“How do you do it, _Amante_?” he asked.

Illya looked up from his spot on the sofa. He’d been studying cookbooks for the last two hours. He took off his own glasses, rubbed his eyes and then blinked furiously. “Do what?”

“Live with glasses.”

“I don’t usually. Allergy season makes wearing contacts miserable.”

“Okay, when you do, how do you?”

Illya shook his head. “I never really thought about it. I’ve worn glasses forever.”

“I remember those black frames you insisted upon.” Napoleon laughed. “We used to call those BCG in the Army.”

“And that would be?” Illya stood up and stretched.

“Birth control glasses.” It seemed like a hundred years ago.

“Well, it certainly works for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those glasses are ugly, Napoleon. You need a better look.” Illya walked over to the desk and gently pulled them from Napoleon’s face. Then he bent in for a kiss and then returned them before straightening. “These are scratched, and cracked. You should get new frames, at least.”

“Where are you going?” Napoleon tugged Illya closer, but the man resisted.

“I’ve got dinner to make. If I don’t stop now, our guests will be ordering take out.”

“It’s just Matt and Rocky. They won’t mind.”

“I will.” He did relent for another kiss. “You can help, if you want.”

“And mess with a Master? Heaven forbid.” Still Napoleon dropped the checkbook and the glasses into a desk drawer, stood and followed Illya into their kitchen. “What did you settle upon?”

“Italian meat pockets. That will make Matt happy.” Illya took an apron from the back of the door and folded it over before tying it on. He went to the pantry and tossed a clean apron to Napoleon.

“And what about me?” Napoleon tied the half apron around his waist and took his position at the table.

“You I will save for later.” Illya gathered up a cutting board, an onion, some garlic and a knife. “I need a quarter cup of that onion and four garlic cloves.”

“Chopped fine?”

“No, medium chop on the onion and a thick cut of the garlic.” Illya went to the refrigerator and pulled out the steak he’d been defrosting. He picked up a plastic cutting board and his favorite knife, pausing to hone it against the steel to put a sharp edge to it. Then he started to cut thin, even slices of the meat.

“How do you do that?” Napoleon paused to watch Illya. While his own knife skills had improved since moving in with Illya, Napoleon was still fascinated by Illya’s ability.

“Lots of practice and many, many cuts.” Illya spread the slices out onto a piece of wax paper. “You do this for five hours and you either get really good at it or they start calling you Lefty.”

Napoleon laughed and returned to his onion. He finished and scooped the pieces into a small bowl and then cleaned and chopped the garlic. “What’s next?”

“I need some salami, preferably soppressata or Napoli.”

Napoleon avoided making a joke. He paused to turn on the radio and the kitchen was filled with soft jazz. “Good?”

“Perfect and grab some provolone cheese at the same time.”

“What are we doing with all of this?”

“The salami and cheese will go on each slice and then we roll them up, dust them with flour, brown them and set them aside while I make the sauce.”

“Which is?”

“Tomato based.” Illya set his board in the sink along with his knife and quickly washed his hands. “I’m going to need a Marsala wine for this.”

Napoleon thought for a moment and slapped his hands together. “I got just the thing over at Vinea. Is now a good time?”

Illya’s sly smile told Napoleon that his lover had something other than food on his mind and that made the pit of his stomach glow warm. Knowing it was going to be one of _those_ evenings, Napoleon grabbed a set of keys, his jacket and went out the front door.

There was a not-so-subtle nip in the air that told Napoleon winter was not far off for the Foothill community he now called home. He used to be able to handle the cold when he was younger, but now he just wanted to bury himself in Illya’s embraces and wait for spring.

He hurried across the parking lot that his small wine store/tasting room shared with Illya’s restaurant Taste.

It took him all of ten minutes to find what he was looking for before returning to the warmth of their little house. The mantle clock told him he had about ninety minutes to go before their guests arrived.

The table was already set and Napoleon knew that the apps and dessert were already done. Illya had been fussing in the kitchen most of the day. He shrugged off his coat and headed back into the kitchen.

Illya was standing in the same place as when Napoleon had left. He set the bottle down and came up behind Illya, wrapping his arms around Illya’s waist.

“I’m working,” Illya cautioned.

“So am I.” Napoleon kissed Illya’s neck, rubbing his cheek against the blond hair. His arms traveled upward until his hands reached Illya’s chest and pulled the man back against Napoleon.

“Napoleon…”

Napoleon worked his fingers, finding and pinching Illya’s nipples through the thin material of his tee shirt. “Tell me to stop and I will…” he whispered into Illya’s ear, biting the lobe gently.

“I can’t…” Illya pressed back, tilting his head so that Napoleon had full access to his neck.

Napoleon’s mouth travelled from the ear down Illya’s neck, kissing, licking and nipping. He let one of his hands fall down to Illya’s crotch and growled as he encountered Illya’s erection.

He spun Illya in his arms and went to his knees, granted not as quickly or easily as he used to, but it was the destination, not the journey that counted now.

Pushing aside the white apron, he undid the belt and fly. With a deft movement, the pants were suddenly down to Illya’s ankles and Napoleon had a mouthful of one hundred percent primo Russian.

Illya groaned and buried his fingers in Napoleon’s hair, urging speed, but Napoleon held off, showing that he was the one in control now.

He took Illya to the edge and then let him fall back. He did this twice and then stood.

“Step out of your pants.”

Slightly dazed, Illya did as requested and Napoleon half tugged, half guided him to the table.   Illya didn’t need to ask what was going to happen. He bent over the table and spread his legs.

Looking around, Napoleon grabbed the olive oil and dumped some into his hand. He very nearly climaxed as he dropped his own pants and coated his penis with the oil.

Without pausing, he positioned himself and pushed in. There was a gasp from Illya and then he was pushing back, as eager as Napoleon. Napoleon slipped his hand around and grabbed Illya’s penis, still wet and slick with saliva.

It didn’t take Napoleon long, a few strokes and he thrust hard and then froze, a groan low in his throat. Illya continued to move a few more seconds, then he arched back.

Napoleon stood there until he felt himself slip free.

“What is the fascination you have about having sex with me on our kitchen table?” Illya mumbled, unwilling to move.

“Forbidden fruit. It pleases. Every time I have breakfast here, I have sweet memories.”

Illya chuckled, then grunted. “The back isn’t what it used to be. I think I need a little help up.”

“Always.” Napoleon helped him straighten up and then kissed him soundly. “And now a little clean up because our guests will be here soon. While they are expecting you to cook, I’m not sure this is exactly the dish they are expecting, although I have to admit that Illya under Glasses is pretty tasty.” He smacked his lips loudly and Illya groaned.

Napoleon decided then and there he’d never let go of either his glasses or his Russian. There were some things in life that were too good to ever replace, no matter the age.


End file.
